


Four Green Fields

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [23]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6265819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lads celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in style</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Green Fields

Title: Four Green Fields

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Humor, Romance

Rating: PG

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Thanks always to my fabulous betas, Merry Amelie and Katbear. Any mistakes are mine.

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance

~*~*~*~

 

“Hey, Quinn, did you see this?” Ben asked, pointing to an ad in the newspaper Sunday morning. “There’s a St. Patrick’s Day concert on the seventeenth in Boston. With a real Celtic band from Ireland! *Cool*!”

 

Quinn placidly sipped his tea. “I vaguely remember hearing something about it, yes. Why do you think I made you get that green button-down yesterday?” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid it over to Ben. “I thought we’d drive over the night before, go to the parade and the concert, maybe stay the weekend, if you like. I’ve already arranged for someone else to take my classes Thursday and Friday. You’ve got vacation time, right?”

 

Ben grinned. “And here I thought it was just because you liked what that shirt did to my eyes.” He read the details again. “Sounds like a lot of fun. I’m expecting you to live up to your roots, old man. Do the Ballymena clan proud. I’ll be taking lots of pictures. Video, too.”

 

“Having heard me sing in the shower once or twice, I’m surprised you’d put the audience through such torture. Hopefully, I’d be drowned out in the cacophony of noise.” 

 

“What, no vaunted ‘Irish tenor’ in your ancestry somewhere? Have I finally found a flaw in the Perfect Man?” Ben shammed dismay. “What have I gotten myself hooked up with? An Irishman that can’t sing? God forbid!”

 

“Aye, I s’pose ye hae a’ tha’, me wee laddie buck,” drawled Quinn, in a highly exaggerated brogue. “Mercies, will I be havin’ to chain ye to me leg for the duration?”

 

Ben leaned in and stole a kiss. “Sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Wednesday evening, Quinn picked Ben up at his apartment. They dropped Bernini off at a five-star pet care facility, then made their way toward Boston. Ben was hard put to control his excitement at the idea of an out-of-town stay with his lover, not to mention the promise of the St. Patrick’s Day parade and the Celtic concert. The stifling atmosphere of the Academy could wear on a man. The weekend at Tony’s cabin over Valentine’s Day had only whetted his appetite. He suspected Quinn felt the same way, and had used the parade and the concert as a convenient excuse.

 

“You packed the green shirt, right?” Quinn asked, for at least the tenth time in the last two days.

 

“Yes, love,” Ben patiently assured him. “I’m surprised you didn’t buy a second one and put it in your own suitcase, just in case.”

 

“How do you know I didn’t?” Quinn retorted. “Can’t have anyone taking liberties, after all.”

 

“Huh?” Ben asked, puzzled by the non sequitur. “What kind of ‘liberties’?” 

 

“Don’t you know? Anyone not conspicuously wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day is opening themselves up to being pinched. And some have been known to use it as an excuse for a bit of more… ‘intimate’ contact.” Quinn’s blue eyes twinkled in the late afternoon sunlight.

 

“But what if you’re an Orangeman?” Ben asked, with a grin.

 

“None would be stupid enough to show their true colors,” Quinn said dismissively. “They’d probably get pitched in the river for it. Or worse.” 

 

“Good thing you left the claymore at home,” Ben countered, with a laugh. “I’d hate to have to tell Adele you’d been locked up for the duration.”

 

“Mm, good point,” Quinn conceded. “I shall strive to uphold the dignity of the clan.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The parade Thursday morning was colorful and noisy, and the streets were packed all along the route. Every shade of green was in evidence. Ben sported a kelly-green sweatshirt, while Quinn favored an emerald cable knit pullover. A handful here and there courageously wore orange, amid catcalls and all manner of snide comments, but at least there were no fistfights. 

 

They changed clothes in their hotel room after the parade and a late lunch. Ben dutifully put on the new green button-down shirt over a pair of dark jeans, basking in Quinn’s open approval. 

 

Judging from the crowd, the concert promised to be every bit as rowdy as the parade, and Ben worried the police might be called in before it was over. Quinn assured him there was no danger, and to just enjoy himself. Boston was long accustomed to its Irish population’s propensities. Ben figured no one in his right mind was likely to pick a fight with his 6’4” broad-shouldered partner. Quinn was more than capable of taking care of himself, and Ben, too, if necessary. 

 

A couple of student bands from Boston College warmed up the room with a variety of popular drinking songs, and the audience clapped and sang along, more or less on-key. It was pretty obvious most had begun their celebrations hours earlier.

 

About an hour into the show, the main band finally took the stage. They performed a couple of numbers, then the lead singer spoke into the microphone. “Big crowd tonight, thanks be t’ God. But would there be any *real* Irishmen or women out there?” he asked.

 

In Boston? Ben thought incredulously. He’s kidding, right? Quinn chuckled beside him and sipped his Jameson’s.

 

Despite the affirmative howls from the audience, the man appeared unconvinced. “Yeah, yeah, I know everyone *pretends* t’ be Irish on the seventeenth o’ March, but from up here, the lot of youse be lookin’ pretty ‘nach Eireannaigh iad.’” A few defiant shouts rang out, and he grinned. “Tha’ means ye ain’t from around these parts, for those of youse too dumb t’ appreciate the beauty o’ our native tongue. And I ain’t talkin’ about the ones of youse who think maybe ye might hae some ancestors buried back home somewhere. I’m talkin’ *genuine* Irish, damn it!” 

 

Ben stood and dragged a protesting Quinn to his feet. “Here’s one, right here! Born and raised in County Antrim!”

 

“Izzat a fact? Well, haul your fine North o’ Erin arse up here, Mister!” The crowd thundered its approval, and Ben pushed Quinn forward, blocking his attempts to sit back down. “C’mon now, all of youse, gie it up fer yer man!”

 

Quinn stoically climbed the steps to the stage and shook hands with each of the band members. Ben pulled out his smartphone, ready to capture the moment for posterity. 

 

“What be yer name there, tall sir?” the singer asked, clapping Quinn on the shoulder.

 

“Quinn Donovan.”

 

“Donovan, is it? ‘Tis a grand soundin’ moniker, t’ be sure. And ye be hailin’ from County Antrim? Whereabouts? Ye look like ye could leap right o’er the Causeway, with those long legs.”

 

“Ballymena,” Quinn answered, apparently deciding to play along for now. A mock-glare over his shoulder in Ben’s direction warned he’d hear about it later. Unfazed, Ben grinned and held up his phone, the red recording light already blinking. He noticed several others doing the same.

 

“And be ye still stoppin’ there nowadays and come o’er jist t’ hear us play this fine evenin’?”

 

Quinn grinned and shook his head. “’Fraid not, mate. I been livin’ in the States these past twenty-five or more years. But I still hae family back there, thanks be t’ God.” His native brogue was beginning to surface. Quinn rarely drew attention to himself outside of academia. But this was a not-to-be-missed opportunity to see him in as close to his native element as possible.

 

“And be ye Irish on both sides?” the singer pressed on.

 

Uh oh, thought Ben. That was a loaded question. Quinn had very little good to say about his mother’s side of the family, with the exception of Jenny herself. But he needn’t have worried. This wasn’t Quinn’s first rodeo. 

 

“Unfortunately, no, but the ones tha’ *matter* be livin’ there,” he said, with a proud smile. “I be cursed wi’ some near kin across the pond in England, but they dinna recognize us, and it’s the back o’ me hand t’ them as well.” The crowd booed right on cue, and Quinn raised a fist in agreement.

 

“Well, then, mate, I think we may hae jist the thing for ye!” The man picked up his guitar.  
“Would ye be knowin’ the tale o’ Mayor Briscoe’s kin who ran afoul o’ the British peeler?” 

 

“Oh, aye,” Quinn said, nodding. “One of me favorites, in fact.” 

 

“Then let’s gie ‘em the story of Mr. Moses!” He strummed his guitar, and Ben gleefully recognized the tune he’d heard Quinn whistle countless times:

 

The policeman walked out, oh, so proud on his beat,  
When a vision came to him of stripes on his sleeve.  
"Promotion," he whispered, "I'll try for today,  
“So come with me, Mister, Ri-tooral-I-ay."

 

"Come, tell me your name," says the limb of the law,  
To the little fat man selling wares on the straw.  
"What's that, sir? Me name, sir? Why, 'tis there on display,  
“And it's Moses, Ri-tooral-I-ooral-I-ay."

 

The trial, it came on, and it lasted a week.  
One judge said 'twas German, another 'twas Greek.  
"Prove you're Irish," said the policeman, "and beyond it say nay,  
“And we'll sit on it, Moses, Ri-tooral-I-ay."

 

The prisoner stepped up there, as stiff as a crutch.  
"Are you Irish or English or German or Dutch?"  
"I'm a Jew, sir, I'm a Jew, sir, that came over to stay,  
“And my name it is Moses, Ri-tooral-I-ay."

 

"We're two of a kind," said the judge to the Jew,  
“You're a cousin of Briscoe, and I am one, too.  
“This numbskull has blundered, and for it will pay."  
"Wisha, that's right," says Moses, Ri-tooral-I-Ay.

 

There's a garbage collector who works down our street.  
He once was a policeman, the pride of his beat.  
And he moans all the night, and he groans all the day,  
Singing, "Moses Ri-tooral-I-ooral-I-ay."

 

Quinn attempted to leave the stage when the number finished, but band and audience alike shouted him down. Following a discussion off-mike, he held up his hands in apparent surrender. Seating himself on a stool, he drew the microphone down to a comfortable level. The band’s drummer sat down next to him, holding what resembled a large tambourine upright on his knee. In his other hand he held a small wooden stick, rounded at each end. The crowd quieted expectantly.

 

After a moment’s silence, the drummer began to beat out a brisk martial rhythm. Quinn echoed the beat, thumping his fist on his knee. Then the two of them chanted in unison:

 

Proudly, the note of the trumpet is sounding,  
Loudly, the war cries arise on the Gael.  
Fleetly, the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding,  
To join the thick squadrons on Saimer's green vale.  
On, every mountaineer, strangers to flight or fear,  
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh.  
Bonnaught and Gallowglass, throng from each mountain pass,  
Onward for Erin, O'Donnell Abu!

 

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing,  
With many a chieftain and warrior clan.  
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing  
'Neath the borderers brave from the Banks of the Bann.  
Many a heart shall quail under its coat of mail,  
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,  
When on his ears shall ring, borne on the breeze's wing,  
Tir Connail's dread war cry, O'Donnell Abu!

 

Wildly, o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling,  
Fearless, the eagle sweeps over the plain.  
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling,  
And all who would scare them are banished or slain.  
On with O'Donnell then, fight the old fight again,  
Sons of Tir Connail are valiant and true.  
Make the proud Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel,  
Strike for your country, O'Donnell Abu!

 

Ben’s heart swelled with pride as the crowd cheered the a capella duet. This was not the dignified, suit-and-tied Academy department chairman, but a man celebrating his heritage among his own kind. Any lingering doubts about whether to accompany Quinn to Ballymena for his niece’s wedding in August evaporated in that moment. He could hardly wait to see *this* Quinn again. And something told him St. Patrick’s Day would be a special holiday for them from now on.

 

The lead singer stepped up to the microphone. “Ladies and gents, gie it up fer yer man, Mr. Quinn Donovan, all the way from County Antrim i’ the North o’ Ireland!” The audience rose to its feet, as Quinn bowed modestly from his stool, then shook hands with the drummer. Ben wolf-whistled loudly, pumping the air with his fist. But when Quinn rose to return to their table, calls immediately rolled out for “more, more!” 

 

Gesturing for silence, the lead singer stepped up to the mike once again. “Jeezus, Mary and Joseph. If ye be lookin’ for change o’ job, mate…” he began, but Quinn laughingly shook his head. “Ah, well, ‘twas worth the askin’, right?” He turned back to the audience. “We dinna get t’ hang out wi’ our northern mates much around these parts. I’m thinkin’ we need somethin’ special t’ mark the occasion. I’m wonderin’ if we might prevail upon this one t’ help us wi’ one more.” He turned to Quinn. “Would ye be joinin’ us in a bit o’ ‘Four Green Fields?’”

 

Quinn drew a deep breath, then nodded. “It would be my very great privilege, sir,” he said solemnly. 

 

The band leader picked up a mandolin and began to softly pick out a tune. A sad penny whistle joined in. Ben leaned forward, checking to be sure the phone was still recording. The haunting melody held him spellbound, even before he heard the poignant lyrics.

 

“What did I have?" said the fine old woman.  
“What did I have?" this proud old woman did say.  
“I had four green fields. Each one was a jewel.  
“But strangers came and tried to take them from me.  
“I had fine strong sons. They fought to save my jewels.  
“They fought and died, and that was my grief," said she.

 

“Long time ago," said the fine old woman.  
“Long time ago," this proud old woman did say.  
“There was war and death, plundering and pillage.  
“My children starved by mountain valley and sea.  
“And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens.  
“My four green fields ran red with their blood," said she.

 

“What have I now?" said the fine old woman.  
“What have I now?" this proud old woman did say.  
“I have four green fields. One of them's in bondage.  
“In strangers' hands, that tried to take it from me.  
“But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers.  
“My fourth green field will bloom once again," said she.

 

Ben glanced around the silent room as the mandolin’s final tremulous chords faded away. More than one hand unashamedly reached to brush away a tear, Quinn’s included. Ben felt his own throat close. He *had* to find that song. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Back in their hotel room, Quinn seemed lost in thought, and Ben hesitated to intrude on his introspection. He tucked the autographed concert program into his overnight bag, then scrolled through the several pictures he’d taken during the show, including a group shot of Quinn with the band at the end. After a quick shower, he returned to find Quinn already in bed. Slipping under the covers, he leaned over and kissed the bearded cheek. “Today was unbelievable,” he said softly.

 

Quinn nodded. “It was.”

 

“I was so proud of you up there tonight,” Ben went on. “What was the drum the guy was playing when you guys did that a capella number?”

 

“The bodhran? Me da had one when I was a wee lad. I remember whacking the hell out of it.” Quinn smiled. “I wonder if the grandkids hae found it yet.”

 

“You’ll have to show it to me when we go over in August,” Ben suggested, snuggling into Quinn’s shoulder. 

 

“Remind me,” Quinn agreed. “So, did I make a big enough fool o’ meself tonight to suit you?”

 

“You were amazing,” Ben insisted. “That last song… The ‘fourth green field’ is Northern Ireland, right?”

 

“Aye, it is. Tommy Makem, from County Armagh, wrote it long ago. He played and sang with the Clancy Brothers from County Tipperary for years, back in the 1960’s. He went solo for a time, then he and Liam Clancy got back together and did several albums together. They’ve all of them passed on now, God rest their souls, and I’m sure Heaven’s more than a little sweeter soundin’ for it.” Quinn’s voice was soft.

 

“Do you have a recording of it?” 

 

“Several. Makem recorded it any number of times. Lots of other artists have, too. It’s best on their live albums, or in performance. Ach, the man could make a mandolin weep real tears,” Quinn said, with a wistful smile. “The ‘Bard of Armagh,’ they called him. He lived up in New Hampshire until his death in 2007. Liam Clancy lived right here in Boston for a time. They called him the ‘Irish Troubadour.’ He died in 2009, the last of them to go. The end of an era, it was.”

 

Ben reached for his smart phone on the bedside table. He found The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem on iTunes and downloaded a “Best Of” collection Quinn recommended. Playing ‘Mr. Moses’ out loud on the phone, he chortled at Makem’s scathingly anti-British introduction. “I’ve heard you whistle that tune a hundred times, but I’d never heard the words. No wonder Professor Smythe-Wellington bristles whenever he hears you coming,” he joked.

 

“As if he needed another reason,” Quinn agreed, with a drowsy chuckle. “If you like that one, see if you can find ‘God Bless England.’ Makem didn’t write it, but the Clancys did it proud.” He shifted comfortably on his pillow and settled Ben against him. “I’m knackered. Let’s get some sleep, and we’ll do some more explorin’ tomorrow.”

 

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day, love,” Ben said softly, and reached to turn out the light.

 

~end~


End file.
